Phantom: The Final Curtain
by Gotham'sProphet
Summary: Act One saw Christine and the Phantom young, passionnate and headstrong. Act Two saw them to Coney Island and when tragedy struck, Christine was dead and Erik was left with their now-motherless son. Neither has been able to leave that night. Now seventeen with the Roaring Twenties in full swing, Gustave faces Act Three in finding his voice again and meeting his own angel of music.
1. Prologue

PHANTOM : THE FINAL CURTAIN - PROLOGUE

Once upon a time, a young Swedish soprano had lost her father and the father had sworn on his deathbed that once in heaven, he would send the angel of music to guide her. And one did. One came in the form of a Phantom that haunted the Opera Populaire. He served both as her teacher and her angel. Christine Daae and this Phantom of the Opera began an adventure together into the night. She sang and he loved, she betrayed and he killed, and near the end of Act One of their story, she had to leave him for another.

Then came Act Two. There was a night beneath a moonless sky…she came and found where he hid just before Christine was wed to the Vicomte de Chagny, a childhood playmate. Ten years later, and fate and fame find the two together again. The Phantom discovers his long-lost son, and she sings for him one last time. Fate and tragedy struck again, and Christine is dead.

"I think it's beautiful. So strange, yet beautiful."

Act Three finds Gustave Daae, named for Christine's father, a teenager who couldn't love music again after it had taken his mother. A grief-stricken boy who was more like his brooding father now than his mother. But as the audience of a redheaded soprano named Melody, Gustave may just find _his _angel of music.

"Your music. It teases at my ear. I turn and it fades away, and you're not here!'

The Phantom had not seen much light after the death of his beloved. In fact, the only light in his life after that came from that of his son, his show _Phantasma_, and the music he writes. He struggles with the twists and turns of fatherhood and attempts every day to get his son to sing again. But just as he tries so very hard to leave his hurt behind, more devils of his past come to seek vengeance upon him and his family. And he will do everything in his power to keep his son safe.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…_

This is the story of the Phantom of the Opera.

And this is The Final Curtain.

Hello. My name is Gustave Daae. My father is the Phantom of the Opera.


	2. Song for the Boy

Phantom: The Final Curtain

Chapter 1

October 3, 1921.

"Song for the Boy"

An icy bite to the air and October's half-frozen kiss to the ground made New York a very uncomfortable place. Time was a monotony from one day to the next, and those without a coat or a scarf found the weather most disagreeable. It was the turn of the century. A time of new beginnings. Or at least it was supposed to be. The Great War, as they were calling it, had ended. The first to encompass the entire world and word had it that it was only escalating again. It was the twenties, though. The roaring kind. The times, the times! _Laissez le bon temps roulez _and all that. That's all that seemed to be on everyone's mind.

Except the boy on the ferris wheel.

* * *

What was it about ferris wheels that made you feel on top of the world?

I never understood it, until maybe now. You could forget anything up here. It's like the altitude purged the bad things from your mind in an adrenaline-filled spike of wonder and spectacle. A white lie, a rejection, even a murder. Forgotten in the comfort of being eye-level with the clouds. If only this chilling wind would stop, then my refuge would be perfect. Then again…what refuge is?

I shrugged on my overcoat and shivered. I looked longingly down upon the main theater building of _Phantasma_, that's where the warmth was. Fath-…_He _would want me home by now. I let my mind continue to wander for a few more minutes, mulling over things with a rich purple mood before the guy on the ground made the wheel spin. I was lowered to the ground and the metal bar holding me to my booth was lifted. I stepped down and shoved my hands in my coat, trudging along the muddy path to the residence building for the performers of _Phantasma_. Some lived on the mainland in Brooklyn, but a good handful of them lived here.

Slipping into the back door of the building instead of facing his personal servants' questions at the front, I descended the steps into darkness for a moment before light poured through. I stepped down a underground corridor architected in the old Gothic style, as per his request and rounded a sharp corner into my bedchambers. One of the few mirrors in the establishment, I saw it as soon as I pulled back the burgundy tapestry that separated my room from the corridor. More folds of the silk hung down the side of the large mirror, covering the right half of my face as I stared into it. The eerie and unwanted resemblance was clear, and I hurried to pull the fabric back, showing all of my face.

There were these darker purplish shadows under my eyes, stark against my pale skin. My mother's eyes, a soft cinnamon color, reflected into mine. My heart ached in my chest and I raised a hand to it, almost as if to make sure it was still beating. I sighed, but drew in a breath as I heard his limping footsteps approach my bedchambers. His left leg hasn't been the same for some time now.

He didn't enter, just peered in through the translucent silk. His low voice was nearly a whisper, but still clear – a musician's voice. "You're late."

"Does it matter?" I felt distant, like I was listening to someone else talk with my voice.

"It's a Tuesday. You've education in the morning," He exhaled, and then chose to enter my chambers. I didn't face him. I just listened to the swoosh of the tapestry and felt his bony hand with long pianist's fingers curl around my shoulder. "You were…humming this morning while you played."

My teeth gritted in my mouth and I knew he saw it. He retrieved his hand and assured, "I don't mean to push or to goad. I only wish you to live as Christine…as she would have wanted her son to live."

I barely gave him time to finish his sentence before I said hastily, "I'm exhausted…I want to sleep."

"Very well," He appeased, turning to go to the exit and lifted the fabric up. Just before he let it down, I could feel his gaze lighten on my back, "Goodnight, Gustave."

"Goodnight, Father."

* * *

_The Phantom watched detachedly from the doorway as his son, barely twelve, ran to the decorated tree and sat in a pretzel, pulling the smallest to himself. He had made all Gustave's gifts himself, spending tireless hours on them without sleep to make sure all would work correctly. But somehow, he could find little cheer in Christmas today, even as he observed his son uncovering the wind-up toy car and grinning as he tested it out. The little vehicle surged forward after Gustave had pulled it back and the boy ran off to retrieve it. _

"_Father?" _

_The boy's voice brought his submerged attention to the surface, and when their eyes met, Erik answered, "Yes?" _

_Gustave put down his toy, abandoning his other large gifts to order the Phantom in a small voice, "Stay here. I've got to get something to show you." _

_Silent, he obeyed as his son hurried to his room. He went to sit in the ancient black armchair by the fire, taking the poker and teasing the cinders inside the hearth until they sparked back to life. The Phantom might've become a statue just then if Gustave hadn't returned with a box in his little hands. His father leaned forward, looking into his son's eyes, just like hers. _

"_What's this?" He asked of the boy as he was passed the box, the square wrapped in newspaper and held together with mismatched tape. _

"_Open it," Gustave instructed, "I saved up and Madame Giry helped me with some of the cost, but..."_

_His father smiled an empty smile as he carefully ripped at the paper and lifted the lid to the box, revealing what was inside. Erik gaped and covered his masked face with his hand. With his other, he lifted the necklace from the box. The chain was silver but the pendant was in the shape of a tiny angel in white robes, clasping her hands over her heart with her eyes closed. _

"_Do you think she would have liked it?" The boy asked in a quiet voice, and as the Phantom glanced, he saw that Gustave's eyes brimmed with tears. _

_Erik knew just who he was talking about. His eyes went to the top of the tree behind Gustave, and his son's eyes followed. A larger and grander angel was perched above, with brunette locks and her mouth open as if singing. _

"_I know she would have." The Phantom drew his son close, and the boy wept into his father's shoulder, Christine's singing still in their ears._

* * *

I woke up from that dream with a thick throat, eyes stinging as I sat up in my bed. I yanked my nightstand drawer open and fished the box out for the first time in years. I had to calm down so I wouldn't break the angel inside as I took the necklace into my hands. I pressed the angel against my forehead gently and let the tears flow.

Her music rang loud in my ears.


	3. Coney Island Blues

Author's Note: My friends, I failed to mention that for the story's sake, I've jumped ahead in the canon timeline to the twenties. I felt as I've done research in this area as part of my studies, that I can do much more with this era than others. I hope you still enjoy and review!

Your faithful servant,

G.P.

* * *

Phantom: The Final Curtain

Chapter 2

October 4, 1921

"Coney Island Blues"

I woke to the sound of my father's organ. Most days, I got out of bed in a rush, got dressed and groomed, and made my morning routine as fundamental and speedy as possible. I did this to be able to make the ferry fast enough to get to education… so early that no one would be able to ambush me once I got there. I had always made sure I was there first. I wasn't fond of surprises. Or the stares.

But today, the music coming from the organ was too much and I lay there for a bit longer, just listening. When I opened my eyes, he was at the door. I'd barely noticed that the music had stopped, almost as if…when in actuality it had ceased….it had continued in my head.

"Oh, Gustave." His rich voice was low, and I sat up, but an arrow of vertigo tore through my cranium. He hurried forward, his cold hands on my head and shoulders. "What is it? Are you alright?"

"I am fine, let go," I lied swiftly, standing and brushing by him, grabbing my school bag on my way out of my bedchamber. He was a shadow at my heels.

He followed me to the back door, my usual exit and entrance into _Phantasma_. He turned me around and looked me over, still not convinced that I was in good health to go to school. "Stay safe."

"Don't I always?" I asked rhetorically, glaring away from his half-masked face to the dirt.

"I trust you are staying behind to be audience for the choir."

I met the eyes that burned. "I am."

I left an unseen question mark at the end of my sentence, as if to say, 'yes, what of it?'. My father and I held a stare for ten seconds at least. The same old unheard conversation. Yes, Father. I'll be safe. No, I won't get into any skirmishes. Yes, I'll be home before the sun sets. No, I'm not participating in the choir, so there's no need to follow me. Yes, it's still for extra credit.

"Have a pleasant day, son," He said quietly, being the first to break our eye contact. I left for education without another word or thought to Coney Island.

* * *

To be honest, I wasn't a popular student in education and the teachers were about as interesting as grass growing or a fish dying on dry land flopping about. Sometimes that's what some of the teachers reminded me of. Their fins flailing around as they performed their duties which they often forgot how to do. Their overly large eyes frowning upon me as I subconsciously wrote music on my paper instead of notes. It's not like I can help it. I was already smarter than half of them. My father had made sure of that. After he took me in, he taught me until my eyes were dry from all I had read.

It wasn't like my marks were low. I had full marks on all of my assignments and exams. It was behavioral issues, as my teachers referred to it. Good luck calling my father, fish. I'd be surprised if he didn't hang you with that lasso just for bothering him.

But there were a few reasons why I kept coming to school. One, my father is a terrible cook when it comes to anything that isn't breakfast and the school food is bearable. On Fridays, they serve dessert. Two, music class. The teacher's barely let anyone else but me touch the organ, so long as I stay for the entire class period playing for them. And three…

Do you recall what I had said about the choir I was attending after education? Truth be told, the teacher knew who my mother was. The soprano of the century, they still call her. So, naturally, the old bird thought I'd be the best person to judge the state of her choir's talent. This was the sixth time I'd attended this choir practice. There I was, writing utensils in hand. But I wasn't jotting down scolding nor praise. I was sketching.

I was sketching the soprano leading them. There was a drawer in my bedchambers back on Coney Island that, under the coats, I kept a folder full of these sketches.

She would get her cue from the director and she would shift down through the risers until she came up to the front. I twisted my lips and closed my eyes before she sang. Every time. What I knew of her identity was very little. I didn't know her name. I only knew that she was a year beneath me. She had chaotically curly copper hair, an increasingly common sight in the Big Apple with the Irish moving in on every other ship. Freckles covered nearly all of her arms and neck, but her face clustered them on her cheeks and nose. Her eyes, emerald or a really strange brown, I couldn't tell from my distance back into the theater. I hoped emerald.

She wore black gloves on her hands every day. I've never seen her hands. At first, I'd assumed that she'd just come in from outside and forgotten they were on. Or they were part of a costume. But as I noticed them even passing by her in the hallways of education, and as she casually donned them talking to her classmates. I realized that they were there for a reason. And it hauntingly reminded me of my father and his masks. What was she hiding?

But her voice was effortless and ethereal. If I closed my eyes, I was a ten year old boy again listening to my mother's lullabies sung in the voice of a soprano. If I closed my eyes, it wasn't my muse singing. It was my mother.

Here she is again, taking center stage and I straightened in my seat. I twisted my lips. Closed my eyes. And that first note rang out like a siren's call…

There is a God.

At the end, the teacher came back to me as per usual and asked how I liked the performance. Finally, I plucked up the courage. Feigning charm so well that she couldn't pick it out, I grinned up and hid my sketches as I asked, "Madam, who is your leading soprano? I must have her name, she is absolutely sublime."

Flustered, the old woman huffed out the name. "Melody Logan. She really is, Mr. Daae."

And me without a bouquet.


	4. Stranger Than I Dreamt It

Phantom: The Final Curtain

Chapter 3

October 7, 1921

"Stranger Than I Dreamt It"

My weekends tend to go fast in one indistinguishable blur. They were usually spent in the rafters above the stage of _Phantasma_, staring up at the ceiling as performance after performance was done and play after play was sung and danced. Sometimes Madam Giry, who was approaching her twilight years, would come up and ask me if I wanted anything to eat or drink while I watched the shows. I'd occasionally ask for an apple and she'd acquire one for me. I loved apples, as they reminded me of the one play Father told me about where he and my mother sang together in front of an audience for the first and only time.

I had her name stuck in my head the weekend after I learned it, however. Like my mind was convinced that if I didn't repeat it, I may – as impossible as it seemed – forget it. Melody Logan. _Melody Logan._ Sometimes I would catch myself saying it out loud. Her name on my French tongue sounded like a prayer. I think it's beautiful – the syllables were notes. I smiled a true smile.

The first I'd smiled in a long time. And at the last performance Sunday night, I think my father might have seen it.

* * *

The Monday I'd returned to the school from my two days on Coney Island was not particularly eventful. Up until I was on my way home. I'd taken my usual shortcut behind a deli and through a carriage lot when I saw her. Melody. She wasn't alone, and I ducked behind a carriage, alert. I knew it wasn't right to eavesdrop but I knew this wasn't a pleasant gathering from the look on her face.

Three boys, twice her size and a handful of inches shorter than I was (I'd inherited my father's height), were laughing and poking her arms. I could hear their sneering voices.

"Say, carrot top? You forgot to pay us the tax for coming this way."

"Why do you wear those gloves? What, they raw from peeling potatoes all day?"

I knew not too many in New York liked the Irish. Felt they were invading their American way of life. My blood boiled at the names, and when I peeked out again, I saw the tears well in her eyes. She was frightened and ashamed. And then the biggest, what I assumed to be their ringleader, said the final word.

"You're nothing but a thieving leprechaun."

At the drop of the first tear, I left my hiding place and spoke up. "I would advise you three take ten steps backward right now." Melody didn't argue when I put her behind me. "The lady is upset, can't you artless buffoons see that?"

All the other boys did was laugh as if poking fun at an innocent girl was humorous. They didn't care that I was taller, all they saw was the numbers game. Three on one. I was beginning to get angry. Melody tugged at my sleeve, whispering, "Please, just walk away. They're idiots."

"Shhh, stay here," I instructed and she obeyed, probably wondering if I'd lost my mind. I took a few steps forward and sized each one up. The followers were scrawny and seemed to be with the bigger leader because he'd pummel them otherwise. A fool loves an audience.

"I'd ask how old you are," I said, grasping their attention once more, "But I'm certain you cannot count that high."

"What'd you say about me, freak show?" One of the followers scowled.

I froze, the blood running from my face. The leader snickered at my face and grinned. "Yeah, isn't that where you live? Over on Coney Island? At that waste dump of a place?"

"I saw him getting on the ferry the other day." The first one informed him.

"What are you, kid?" The leader asked tauntingly, and I felt my hands sting. "A…"

And then he said the word again. "…..freak?"

I turned away from him, and, maybe for strength or sympathy, gazed back at Melody. Her eyes were kind. And emerald. I went towards her and the boys behind me laughed. I muttered to her, "Let's go."

That's when the bullies made a grave mistake. "Probably running off to go see his freak mother. Momma's boy!"

My insides went absolutely cold, and then red hot, like a fever. I dropped my hand at Melody's back. She spun around and kept begging me to ignore them, her leather gloves against my chest and neck. My teeth were gritting and my hands clenched. Slowly, with staggering breaths, I faced them and my eyes fixated on the leader's face. Without warning, I exploded into motion. Before he knew it, my fist came up and collided with the boy's massive jaw with a crack. The bigger they are…

He went down in a heap, clutching his face and barking to his friends to get me. His followers were felt in much the same way I felt nagging flies in the heat of summer. That is, until a fist collided with my mouth, breaking my lip open. I put a sideways kick to the gut of the offender and shoved the last to the ground before he could get his arms around my neck.

After the followers were compromised, I reached down to grab the collar of the leader, growling down at him. "You speak about my mother again, a punch to the jaw will be the least painful event of your day."

Hyperventilating, I glared around at the scene. Scrambling to their feet, the three bullies checked to make sure I wasn't pursuing them before they fled.

Melody came up to me after they were gone. She smoothed down her sweater and adjusted her messenger bag strap. "You didn't have to do that for my sake. Really."

"You didn't deserve their names," I reasoned once I'd gotten a hold on myself again. I lifted a hand to my lip and glanced at it. Blood. "Nor their judgments. I did what I thought was right."

"Well, thank you," Melody said, before her hands went to my busted lip. "You're bleeding, oh God. This is all my fault. What's your name?"

"Gustave Daae, at your service." I tried to sound cavalier, like the knights in the novels I'd read. But my grimace gave it away.

She produced a small cloth from her bag and began dabbing at my face. I winced and pushed her hand away. "I'd rather not stain your handkerchief with my blood. I'll be fine."

"Do you need a hospital? Where are your parents so I can apologize?" Melody asked frantically, ignoring my protests.

"Parent. Singular." I corrected bitterly, and went to sit on a carriage step.

"Your father's name, what is it?" She interrogated.

"I don't know."

"Your mother's?"

"Christine." I forced out. Melody stopped and stared at me in the eyes, as if she suddenly recognized me. I paled. Surely she hadn't noticed me in the theater. Could she have?

"You mean you're…you're G-Gustave Daae, son of C-C-Christine Daae?" Melody stuttered out, and covered her mouth with her hands. "The opera singer?!"

"Perhaps," I gave, my eyebrows furrowing. "Does it matter?"

"Oh, you are, aren't you?!" She cried out happily, as if this was a huge deal and I wasn't bleeding. "The soprano of the century!"

"Yes, yes, I'm her son, what of it?" I grew annoyed and my lip hurt. "Listen. My parentage isn't important. What is your name?" Although I knew it, I couldn't let _her _know that I did. I couldn't let her think I was some sort of pervert.

"Melody, Melody Logan," She said brightly, extending her gloved hand. "But everybody calls me Pepper."

I shook her hand and tried to grin with a busted lip, but couldn't. "Honored to meet you, Pepper. Now…" I made a show of scouting about the lot and the sky above, which was approaching nightfall. "The bullies are gone and it's getting late. Shall I walk you home? To be sure you're safe?"

I offered my arm, and with a smile that made my heart sing, Pepper took it. As if no one's ever done that to her before. I wondered how that could be.

"What a gentleman!"

* * *

I told my father the lip was the result of tripping onto concrete and made every effort to fuss about me the rest of the night. He checked on me every hour and even tried to feed me my supper. I couldn't possibly get angry at anyone, though. I'd officially met her! What luck! And I'd walked her home with her arm around mine. I'd sing, but…

I sighed in my bed without sleep, beaming up stupidly at the tapestry through the pain. If this lip never healed due to my grinning, I didn't care. For once, I had hope.

* * *

Author's Note: I feel I really should've titled this chapter, "Gustave meets his first fangirl."

Your amused servant,

G.P.


	5. Ribboned Roses

Author's Note: My apologies for the shortness of this mini-chapter. It didn't look right stacked on top of the next one.

Your faithful servant,

G.P.

* * *

Phantom: The Final Curtain

Chapter 4

October 8, 1921

"Ribboned Roses"

Pepper left dinner early the next night. She hadn't much time to herself to ponder on her rescuer from the day before. Gustave Daae. She could hardly believe it. The son of her idol had saved her from bullies that'd been tormenting her for weeks. She was almost used to it by now, the names. Whether it was her hands or her heritage, Pepper couldn't help the bullying that rained down upon her. Her refuge was the choir.

There, she could be free. There, she had a purpose and was with like-minded people. Music was a blessing, something to be celebrated every single day. It was the one true universal language. Emotion translated into sound. Pepper was self-taught, having spent much of her time singing growing up. When she found her voice, however…was when she listened to Christine Daae sing at _Phantasma _the night the opera singer was killed. She was there, in the audience. Her parents, Allistor and Mary Logan, had wealthy friends who had given them invitations to the event. While her parents had little grasp of how refined opera was, Pepper found herself amazed and longing for more. She could hardly believe her ears.

She never forgot the performance that changed her life.

Pepper hummed the familiar melody of the chorus under her breath as she down the hall to her room. She yawned as she walked in, carefully peeling off her gloves. She took a moment more to look at them, before letting them fall on the nightstand beside her bed. But she hadn't seen the flowers yet.

And when she did, she wished her guess was right as to who they were from. A wide, white grin spread across her face as she saw the elaborate bouquet of flowers on her desk. Roses red as her hair in a vase of black glass. There was a card attached to the black ribbon holding them together. Giggling, she opened the note inside and ran her fingers along the letters written in ink. She could still feel the impressions where his quill had pushed into the paper.

_Dear Pepper, _

_ The roses are freshly picked and I do hope you like them. In return, I was wondering if you'd like to become better acquainted? If you please, meet me on Coney Island this Saturday at your earliest convenience. There, you'll meet three of my friends. Don't mind their circus-like looks, they won't dare do you any harm. Please, consider this offering of friendship. I noticed how you seemed to excite at hearing my mother was…you know. I thought you might like to step on the very stage she performed her last piece. _

_ Hoping to see you Saturday, _

_ Gustave_

_ P.S. – I remembered you asking to take care of my injury after we parted yesterday. Never fear, the lip is doing much better. _


End file.
